“Yes.” She answered
“It isn’t like I lack inspiration. I am inspired all the damn time. But what is in my head never comes out right on the canvas. I feel like a failure, like a one-hit star, like this was all a mistake. This moving to New York to pursue my dream. This adventure that has slowly become a living nightmare. I have lost it, Alero. I think we should just go home to Baltimore and start afresh.”
“Hmmmm…” She responded.
“Are you even listening to me?” He asked the woman underneath him.
Her eyes were still closed and she shifted slightly to bear his weight better. The movement sent a jolt down his spine and he found that he was suddenly ready again. The dance continued from where they left off. Only then did she open her eyes and let him know it was okay to drown his fears in her.
When it was over and their heart rates had calmed, she began to speak.
“Have you ever thought that making art is a lot like making love? Sometimes it is slow and sometimes it is fast. Sometimes, it is nothing – a mere reaction to pent-up hormones, and sometimes it is everything – the only way to show how much you love something. At the end of both processes, there is always a release. It is why a lot of people have sex. For the release. For the end. They look forward to the end of a thing and so they forget the right way to begin. So there are rapes, faked orgasms, unsatisfied parties and so on.”
“You paint like most people make love. You paint for an end and so you do not know where to begin. You keep looking forward to the end result so that you forget that there is a certain beauty to the process, to the foreplay. Maybe you need to start looking at blank canvases as the many possibilities that they are and stop seeing them as one painting, the one end result you want them to be. But what do I know; I am only a girl who hasn’t orgasmed in months now.”
She kissed him then and went to make ready. She had rounds of the children’s ward today. She liked children a lot- they were in no hurry for endings. When she got back that evening, he would meet her at the door with paint in his hair and a brush in his hand. He would lead her up the stairs and watch as she clapped excitedly over the three paintings he had completed in that one day. Even when she kissed and said “I have never seen anything more perfect,” he would only be thinking about beginnings and the many blank canvases, the many possibilities that were waiting on him.
Even when he would get his first reviews in the art section of the New York Times. Even when one of the three paintings would fetch them more money than they could ever dream of. Even when she would tell him she was pregnant and other fathers-to-be would have been ready to paint a clear picture on the blank canvas of their minds of what their child would look like. Even then, and forever after, he was content to stare at blank canvases, at her flat stomach, and enjoy beginnings as much as he did endings.
Song of the day: Sheryl Crow & Kid Rock – Picture